a cacophony of desperation
by sydneysages
Summary: Reuniting with Samantha Nicholls is all well and good until Dylan discovers that she's developed a new habit in the last decade: snoring like a fuel-powered hunk of metal. / "Twenty years is worth it for a good night's sleep, right?" He mutters to himself, glaring at the ceiling.


This has come from a random headcanon I came up with on Tumblr, and is a bit of a mess, to mark my return to Sam x Dylan and Casualty fanfic. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

.1.

It's a little after two in the morning the first time that Dylan Keogh is woken up by Samantha Nicholls. As he lifts his head, bleary-eyed and perplexed, he's convinced that there must be some form of helicopter overhead. It's been known to happen once every few months; the Holby Loch is only a couple of miles away from the estate, after all. Perhaps someone has decided to do a runner, to coin a local colloquialism, and the police are out to get them.

That seems the only plausible explanation, at least to Dylan's tired mind, and he returns his head to the pillow. Before he closes his eyes, he takes a moment to cast his eyes over the still form of his bedmate, a woman who hasn't shared his bed for more than a decade. Or _hadn't_, rather. Three and a half weeks into a newly revived, steady relationship, she finally decided to stay the night.

_Trust Samantha to be able to sleep through_, Dylan thinks to himself as he settles in behind her sleeping form, placing one arm gently over her torso. There's something so settling and calming about having her here for his normally whirring mind; even with the helicopter outside, he's back to sleep within seconds.

His last thought before he conks out again is how much he loves the woman in his arms.

* * *

.2.

"Good morning, Grumpy," Sam murmurs, her lips mere centimetres from Dylan's face, as he opens his eyes.

His alarm hasn't gone off – or has it? – but the angle of the light suggests that it's time to wake up. At some point in the night, Sam's twisted her body so that she's facing him, her arm wrapped casually over his torso, a direct mirror of their position earlier.

"Morning," he replies, his voice gruffer than normal due to the early hour. "Though I suppose it may be a good one." He just about manages to stifle a yawn, though he's convinced that it does something stupid to the rest of his expression.

"Oh yeah?" She replies, a glint in her eyes. "And why's that?"

"Well," Dylan begins, reaching out to push a piece of Sam's hair away from her eyes. There isn't a better sight to wake up to than her glorious face, he doesn't think. "You're here. It's certainly nice waking up to see you."

She doesn't reply, simply closes the small gap between their lips.

He supposes that that's her reply, anyway.

* * *

.3.

"Don't forget some breakfast," Dylan calls across to Sam, who is hastily putting her paramedic boots on. Despite repeated offers from Dylan to drive her in, she's reluctant to make him leave the houseboat four hours before his shift's due to start.

"I won't," she replies, the slightly distracted note to her voice probably something to do with the fact that she can't quite remember where Dylan threw her badge last night. Or was it her staff card?

"Did you hear the helicopter last night?" He asks matter-of-factly, whilst buttering her a piece of toast. He hopes she still likes it so thick that the butter could practically form its own lake, anyway. Those are the sorts of things that you miss when you have a decade of animosity, after all.

"What helicopter?" Sam replies, bending over to look under the couch. "Have you seen my badge?"

"Think it's on Dervla's bed," Dylan says, pointing the knife in the general direction of his dog's bed. "Yeah, it was around two am. Must have been an escaped prisoner or something – might have a look on the news."

"Didn't hear a thing," Sam replies, reaching into Dervla's bed. "Got it, thanks. And is that for me?" She's standing behind him now, her hand reaching down to take the piece of toast without even waiting for an answer.

"If it wasn't, would it matter?" Dylan's tone is dry, but one look at Sam makes him aware that she can see through his charade. "Still take it that way?"

"Absolutely," is what he thinks Sam says through a mouthful of toast. "Though I _have_ considered spread rather than butter."

Dylan raises an eyebrow. "Considered."

"Yeah, considered," she comments, her tone playful. "Who would actually listen to a doctor about something like that, anyway?"

"True," Dylan concedes. "Anyway, you'd best be off. Enjoy your shift."

She bends over to kiss him goodbye, and the energy he gains from her makes him completely forget about the mid-morning interlude of a wayward criminal.

* * *

.4.

"Urgh," Dylan groans, covering his eyes with his forearm in a vain attempt to avoid looking at the clock.

It doesn't work, and within a few seconds he's glanced across at the luminous face. It's almost two am, a little earlier than his rude awakening the night before, though that doesn't make him feel any happier.

It's almost ludicrous, how irritated he feels. He's been asleep for fewer than two hours, after the shift from hell – almost, anyway. An RTC involving a colleague is never fun, particularly when that same colleague has had more accidents than anyone else in the department combined – and is your boss. And now there's _another_ helicopter hovering above his home.

After a minute, he decides to get out of bed and see if he can work out where the helicopter is. Maybe it's a stupid millionaire who wants to show off their wealth by irritating the residents of Holby by flying a ridiculous helicopter at night. Or maybe the gangs of Holby Estate are out in force.

Either way, he doesn't care. All he wants is for it to fly away and _let him get back to sleep_.

Gently placing his feet on the floor, feeling around for the functional yet unaesthetically pleasing slippers "Dervla" (by the proxy of Zoe Hanna) purchased him for Christmas the year before, he heaves himself off the low bed and heads towards the window. Carefully sliding the curtain across, trying to ensure that the light doesn't hit the bed and therefore his sleeping beau, he silently curses at the darkness. The only source of light he can see is the half moon; the secret of the noise is yet to be unveiled.

Walking through the houseboat, he's perplexed to find that the helicopter seems to get quieter as he heads towards the door to the outside. Perhaps the helicopter is finally flying away…

As he unlocks the door, Dylan has an errant thought: what if the noise is coming from _inside_ the boat? He shakes that away relatively quickly, though. That's irrational, isn't it? There are no helicopters on his houseboat…

Standing on the side of the dock, nothing makes sense to him. If it wasn't for the fact that he's _definitely_ awake, sober and of at least semi-rational mind, he'd think that his brain is completely untrustworthy. As, to the naked eye, there's nothing that could even partially resemble a helicopter. The sky is clear, save for the scattering of stars illuminated by the moon's soft glow; should the reason for his consciousness have been different, Dylan's sure he would have found the scene particularly romantic. For now, however, he's more perplexed than anything.

Locking the door behind him, he takes a moment to glance across his home, his eyes having at least partially adjusted to the darkness. There's nothing that seems different in here, is there? Everything's the same as it was yesterday which, in turn, is the same as the day before...

Everything except one person.

Suddenly aware of his own stupidity, Dylan returns to the bedroom, slides his slippers off, and returns under the covers; he slides closer to Sam but, rather than tuck himself in behind her, he lifts himself up and looks directly at her face.

The noise is perfectly timed to her breathing, and he comes to the insanely obvious conclusion that there is no helicopter. There is only an extremely heavily snoring Samantha Nicholls.

"Ten years apart and the only new habit you've adopted is _snoring_?" Dylan asks, his tone despairing.

Now he knows what the noise is, he expects his mind to be able to rest. It's exhausted, as is his body, after all.

Apparently not.

Apparently the awareness that his paramour – the best thing that's happened to him in quite an extended period of time, as he admitted last night – is the cause of his distress is enough for his brain to want to stay awake. To torment him or to process, he isn't quite sure, but he knows for certain that with every minute that passes, his irritation rises.

_Why_ did he have to fall in love with someone who snores so heavily? There isn't much that Dylan prizes, but an undisturbed night of sleep is certainly something – and this isn't something that can be ignored.

Rolling over, as far away from Sam as possible, Dylan folds the pillow over his ears and wills himself to fall asleep.

* * *

.5.

It doesn't work.

Forty minutes later and he's still wide awake, hearing every modicum of noise that emits from Sam's body.

He's tempted to smother her in her sleep, in the hope that the shock of a few feathers stops her body from making such an unnatural noise.

He's tempted to turf her out of his boat and make her sleep on the dock; surely someone who snores so loudly must be an incredibly deep sleeper?

He's tempted to send _himself_ onto the dock and sacrifice comfort for peace and quiet.

He's even tempted to throw a bucket of water on her, startling her into consciousness just so that she can understand his pain.

There's even a moment that he considers finding his spare phone – the one with a video recorder – and documenting this night of torment, just to prove to her in the morning. Maybe, depending on how much sleep he manages to get, with a note that tells her that this relationship is over.

Every time that he looks at her sleeping form, however, he mellows and remembers his feelings for her. Those feelings alone are the only reason that he's still in this bed; though perhaps that's a sign of his own weakness, rather than the sanctity of their relationship.

Her rhythm changes, and a hiccup emanates from Sam's mouth.

Which is followed, by some miracle, by a moment of silence.

Rejoicing, Dylan allows himself to imagine the rest of the night. He'll get to sleep within a few minutes, followed by a deep, restful sleep that will end with his alarm. He'll be reunited with Sam, they'll have a loving conversation about their future and—

He thought too soon.

The snoring's back – and, if anything, it's _louder_ than before. The helicopter is right in his ear, now, and it's driving him to imagine murdering Samantha Nicholls.

"Twenty years is worth it for a good night's sleep, right?" He mutters to himself, glaring at the ceiling.

Then, again, the snoring stops, and Sam moves.

Shifting her body so that she's facing him, her sleepy expression melts his heart – and the irritation dissipates as fast as it appeared.

"Is it morning?" She murmurs, snuggling her face into his chest. "Mmm, I love being with you."

"Not yet," he assures her. "Though maybe if you get some water…" He tries to think of an excuse to buy him some time to get to sleep before her.

Because whilst he might love Samantha Nicholls, he doesn't love her snoring.

* * *

.6.

The next morning, after a few hours of surprisingly deep sleep, Dylan sits with a cup of coffee. Sam's in the shower – no doubt using all of his hot water, though he cannot begrudge her anything – and he's thinking about how to broach the subject. Whilst he's certain he wants her with him for the rest of their lives (perhaps an optimistic thought, but he's sure that's better than being pessimistic), he doesn't think that that will be very long if he continues to get disturbed sleep.

"Morning," Sam says brightly. "How come you were awake in the night?"

He can't tell if she's being deliberately obtuse, or if she genuinely has no idea about her snoring.

"Oh, er," he begins, unsure whether to broach the subject.

"You need toothpaste, by the way," she says matter-of-factly. "I'll start a list, shall I?"

Shortly after Sam's started the list – and gone on the hunt for another item of clothing that was ripped off in a moment of passion last night – Dylan reaches over and adds _earplugs_ to the list.

Maybe he'll get a decent night's sleep tonight.

(As he looks at her, his relatively rested mind in gear, he rashly decides that he doesn't care if his sleep is disturbed by the angel-like being who returned to his life. Though he probably will at two am tomorrow.)


End file.
